The Mouth of the Gift Horse
by GreenTfairy
Summary: The story of Scudder and Lodz, from Battlefield in Lemberg, to their parting of the ways in Arles.
1. Chapter 1

MOUTH OF THE GIFT HORSE

Part I: No Man's Land

It was the same dream, again. The dream he would have every night, for the rest of his life. The dream which began with the empty cage, and panic crushing his chest. Bruno was gone.

He scoured every inch of the camp, calling until he was hoarse, thinking only of the many things that could happen to a bear. Poison. Traps. Bullets. Bear-baiters might have taken him, Lodz thought. Rousties, or soldiers, hoping to make some fast money. Someone might even now be taking bets on how many dogs Bruno could kill before the pack finally tore him apart.

Or worse, Bruno might have attacked someone. He prayed the bear hadn't attacked a child. If the bear had tasted human blood he would have to be put down. His throat tightened painfully.

Not Bruno. Not his best bear, his favorite, the one he'd raised from a five pound cub. Bruno, the biggest bear in the business, was gentle as a kitten.

He hadn't cut his hair since he got Bruno, because as a cub Bruno liked to hide in it, and never outgrew the need. Even now, bear would rest his giant head on Lodz' shoulder and hide his eyes in the thick dark hair, imagining himself safe by his mother, a cub again. So trusting, Lodz thought. If bear-baiters had touched Bruno, he would beat them to death. His grip tightened on the sword cane in his hand.

He tried not to think about the smells of blood, sulfur, and the sicksweet smell of death that surrounded him as he plodded through the mud and ash, hoping to find bear tracks.

The landscape was unrecognizeable, a dim, smoky wasteland skewered with the skeletons of blasted trees. Nothing familiar greeted his eyes as he peered through the haze, hoping for a glimpse of Bruno's red vest or hat in the distance. He had to calm himself. The bear would smell fear, and wouldn't come if he didn't feel safe.

The heat from shells and the charred woods made sweat trickle into his eyes. He closed them, took a deep breath, and thought about stroking the bear's thick brushlike fur, about his favorite song, about anything, except where he was. He made his voice carefree and soothing, singing the bear's name as if merely calling him to dinner.

He was sure he was heading in the right direction--the very smell that was making him gag, would be irresistable to a bear.  
So far he had not encountered a single living person, which gave him hope that perhaps he would find Bruno alive.  
He tried to keep looking in all directions, turning in a full circle from time to time. He really could only see a few feet in any direction, because of the haze. Smoke stung his eyes and made him dizzy.

While he was walking backwards he bumped straight into someone-a soldier.

He swallowed his panic, lest the soldier panic, too, and reach for his gun. He forced himself to sound pleasant and friendly."Have you seen my bear?" he asked in English.

The soldier's incredulous stare made him wonder if he'd chosen the right language. He was about to speak again, this time in French, when the soldier called him by name, staring at him as if seeing a ghost.  
A chill ran through Lodz at the sound of his name in the soldier's American accent. There was strange about the boy, as if there was too much spirit in his body, too much life reflected in such young eyes.

"Do I know you, soldier?" he asked, peering at the blue eyes and perfectly chiseled features under the mud and grime, trying to think if he'd ever seen this boy before. It was possible. After so many years on the circuit, he was often greeted by people he didn't recognize.

Then with no warning, the soldier lunged into him and threw him to the ground, pinning him there. The flash of anger and confusion he felt at being attacked, vanished when he heard the explosion so close--practically on top of them.

No, it WAS on them, he realized. The soldier was acting as a human shield.  
Heart pounding, he stayed still, pinned under the soldier's unconscious body.

"Are you alright?" He whispered. No answer. He carefully pushed the other man off him. The soldier lay unmoving. Lodz had no idea what to do in this kind of situation. There was blood. A lot of it. He started unbuttoning the man's jacket, and tearing at the linen collar of his shirt to use bandaging him up.

He rolled the soldier over, dreading the sight of his back blown open, full of shrapnel. There was so much blood, yet when he tried to find the wounds, he couldn't. The soldier's jacket hung in tatters, charred, but though the smell of burning flesh lingered, there was no open wound, no burns, nothing to show he'd been hit at all.

"We have to get you to the doctors," he said, getting to his feet. "thank God you weren't killed!"  
"No." the soldier said. "That's okay, I'm fine."

"That's impossible."

"Yeah, well, I don't get hurt that easy. Let's not look a gift horse in the

mouth, okay?" the soldier said, standing up.

Lodz stood staring at the soldier. "You're right. We should give thanks for a miracle. Two miracles--I owe you my life. What's your name?"

The soldier looked as if he'd been asked something very personal, secret, almost dirty. As if confessing a crime, he muttered, "Henry Scudder."

Lodz took a card from the pocket of his red satin jacket, and held it out."Scudder, you said? Call me Lodz. If you ever need anything, anything at all, you come and see me. I am at your service for anything you might require. Now I regret I must go."

Scudder took the card, turning it nervously over and over in his hands. Finally he spoke. "You asked me about a bear. I saw him." He spoke slowly, reluctantly.

Lodz seized both Scudder's arms again. "Where? Is he alright?" Seeing Scudder's expression, Lodz steeled himself for the worst.  
Scudder pointed. Lodz could make out a flash of crimson twenty yards away, and sprinted. The bear lay on his side, still wearing the hat that cheerfully announced his name in gold sequins.

"No. Please..." Lodz whispered. Blood bubbled from Bruno's nostrils and mouth as he lifted his head and crooned a greeting. Lodz dropped to his knees and ruffled his hands through the bear's fur. His hands came away covered with blood.

"He's been shot," Scudder said, "I'm sorry." and put a hand on Lodz' shoulder.

"Why would someone do that?" he cried, anguished, knowing why. "How bad? Dead, or does he need a doctor? We need to take care of him first." He stood at the edge of the trench, not bothering to wipe the mud off.

Scudder cursed under his breath. "We'll never get him to the infirmary in time," he said. "It'd be kinder to finish him off, or let him die."

Then Lodz saw the man. Alive, he lay in the trench on his back, gasping, drenched in blood, his legs shredded off, one arm gone, most of his face gone, too. Speechless Lodz stared down into the pit. Bruno could not have done this, he thought.

He hardly knew what he did, after that. He walked up to the truck behind him, and spoke to the driver. "Get this man to the Red Cross tent." Two gypsy men leaped from the cab of the truck, and loaded what was left of Bruno's victim into the back. A third in the bed of the truck, next to the bear cage, asked, "what about Bruno?" Lodz shook his head. The truck with its bear cage disappeared into the red mist.

The bear sniffed the air, and let out a gurgling cry. Lodz cradled the bear's head in his lap. He pressed his head against the bear's, ruffling his fur, letting his long black hair fall over the bear's face. He murmured soothingly, crooning his name, telling him everything would be alright now.

Then he drew a revolver from his jacket.

Two hours later, Scudder and Lodz were sitting in the back of the truck looking anywhere but at each other. Lodz leaned tiredly against the empty cage, holding the bear's hat and vest in his bloodstained hands, staring into space, the blood and grime on his face cut with the white paths left by tears. Silently they shared a flask, still avoiding one another's eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Lodz 1914

He was holding and rocking Bruno. The bear was like a chunk of ice, and his eyes were missing. It was sight of the empty eyes, that jolted him awake, screaming. A feeling of cold despair settled in his stomach. All those years, he thought, he and his uncle had fought over how the bears should be trained.

"A sighted bear will wander," Uncle always said. "He'll be a danger to you, and to himself. If you take their eyes young, they won't remember it."

"You're not blinding my bear, old man. Try it, and I'll kill you." The threat had worked. Yet in the end he had failed to protect his bear. The twisted old man had won.

He was holding his blankets in his arms, shivering on top of them, trying to will away the mental image of the lifeless bear. He shook himself free of them. If it was cold for him in the trailer, Lodz considered, how much worse it must be for Scudder. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he rose and went out to look at the chilled night sky. The full moon sported a thick emerald ring against a blue-gray background. Rain, or snow, was immanent. Indian summer was over.

He gathered a few blankets up, and went in search of Scudder. The man insisted on sleeping outside, even though Lodz had offered to put him up. He found him shivering under a truck, eyes wide and fixed, fathomless as the sky overhead.

He spoke softly. "Scudder. You can't sleep either?" He leaned against the truck and lit a cigarette, offering one to Scudder.

Scudder shook his head,accepting the cigarette. "I'm used to it," he said. "A rough night or two won't hurt me." His eyes were so haunted, so painful, Lodz thought. So young a man shouldn't have that look on his face. He put it down to the combat Scudder had seen.

"We'll get snow soon," Lodz remarked. "You'll want to be indoors then."

Scudder sucked the smoke in, and exhaled it through his nostrils, but said nothing.

"We should go to Belgrade. The east wind keeps it dry and mild-not so cold as this place, in winter."

"Suit yourself," Scudder said .

"Scudder? When did you last eat?" Silence.

"Come inside, have dinner with me. Perhaps a drink, and a game of cards, since neither of us can sleep," he coaxed.

Scudder looked at him suspiciously, like a whipped puppy being offered a bite of steak. "you sure?"

"Scudder. Of course! I owe you my life. What's mine is yours. Come inside."

Lodz turned on the electric light, and stopped to usher Scudder in ahead of him. "Not quite the Ritz, but it's indoors. If you need anything at all, you should tell me, Scudder. There are supposed to be advantages to saving a man's life, no?"

He threw the blankets onto the sofa, by way of indicating that it was Scudder's new bed.

Then he poured two glasses of rum, and shuffled the cards, just as a clap of thunder announced it was raining outside.

Neither of them alluded to the fact that Scudder had deserted. As far as Lodz was concerned, that was Scudder's business.  
His business was simply to repay Scudder for saving his life.

Scudder asked him then. "What now? You gonna get another bear?" The blue eyes squinted at him through the smoke.

Lodz shuddered. "No. I couldn't. Not now, anyway. You probably think it's foolish, but I couldn't face training another bear, not after Bruno. He was special."

Scudder nodded, rearranging his cards. "Not foolish. I had a dog once...and never again, Lodz. I couldn't go through that again...I know what you mean."

There was a long silence, while both men pretended to be fascinated with their cards. The rain rattled away on the wooden roof.

Scudder spoke finally. "So, what now?"

Lodz shrugged. "Perhaps magic tricks, or patent medicine. I'm strong. I can hammer tent pegs and paint banners, if nothing else." He played three tens and discarded a king. He arched one inky eyebrow at Scudder. "You?"

"I could use a job." Again the squinting gaze, as if Scudder expected a blow to the head simply for looking at him.  
Lodz dug a silver coin from the pocket of his vest, and handed it to Scudder.

"What's this for?" Scudder asked, looking at it blankly.

"An advance on your first job. I will need an assistant. Wait." He pulled a second silver coin from his coat, and showed Scudder how to roll the coin from finger to finger, hand to hand, how to make it seem to vanish, reappearing elsewhere. "Practice," he said, "until you can  
keep the coin in motion for an hour."

Scudder rolled the coin over, and under each finger as he'd seen Lodz do. Lodz took a book from the shelf and began to read, until the coin slipped from Scudder's hands. Scudder was asleep. Lodz wrapped the blanket around him, and lay back in his own bed, finally able to sleep and see nothing behind his eyelids but rain.


	3. Chapter 3

He was running in red mist, towards fire exploding on the horizon. He needed to get to Bruno in the trench, before death did. He stumbled, almost fell over sandbags piled near the edge of the trench. He stood at the Russian's elbow. "Stop," he panted. "Don't shoot." Bruno was there, unhurt, in the trench, unaware of their presence. The world stood still. The Russian gave him a sorrowful look, eyes as blue and hunted as Scudder's.

"You can't change the past, Lodz," the man said in a soft, feminine voice.

"Only the future." And fired his bullet into Bruno.

He sat up, and wiped the sweat from his face, and recognized the sound of a train's whistle in the distance, like the mournful howl of a wounded bear. And mortar fire. Again. Wherever they went, there the war followed. The nightmares got a bit worse.

The solution, he decided, was to become busy and productive. He must work harder to get his mind off it. He would not think about the past. Only the future.

That afternoon he went into town, and picked up a little money doing card tricks in a bar, with which he replenished their alcohol and food stocks. Money was tight, so he set a trap on the roof of the trailer. Trapping birds off the roof of the trailer when money was low, was one of the few useful things his uncle had taught him. He cleaned the trailer, polished the wood until it gleamed, then went out onto the roof to empty the traps.

When he returned to the trailer to pluck the birds, Scudder was sitting, humming to himself, dropping his coin every so often.

Lodz plucked pigeons for dinner, feeling each clank of the coin against the floor in the pit of his stomach as he listened to the explosions outside. The war was coming closer. They would need to move on.

Scudder seemed oblivious. "You get those birds off the roof?" clink. Each fall of the coin seemed to trigger another blast in the distance, and every blast brought the memory back to Lodz, of what he had seen, at the bottom of the trench, Bruno's disastrous handiwork. He pushed it from his mind, answering Scudder breezily.

"Yes, I did. Be glad it's pigeons, not sparrows." Clink.

"Well, I guess beggars can't be choosers." Clink.

"You'll like them. I cook them with garlic." Clink. "Damn." Clink.

"I never had pigeon before. Oops." Clink.

"Taste like chicken," Lodz said.

Clink. Clatter. Clink.

Lodz could stand it no more.

"Scudder!" he barked finally. "Stop it!" He slammed one finished pigeon against the table.

Regaining his composure, he quickly found ten coins in his stash under the table, and pressed the whole handful into Scudder's hands.

"From now on, you drop, I keep. Comprends? Good." He began to crush garlic, "as if

committing murder," which was easy this time.

Scudder smothered a laugh, shook his head. He stuffed the small treasure into the pocket of the pants Lodz had found for him, and continued rolling the coin.

"That'll show 'em, Lodz," he said, grinning broadly. "You should get out there on the front, and crush that garlic."

Lodz looked at the decimated garlic, and the feathers on the floor, and then at Scudder's eyes, which were twinkling. He tried to look stern, but it was no use. The two of them collapsed into fits of laughter, which continued whenever they met one another's eyes, the rest of the evening.


	4. Chapter 4

Budapest 1914

"You can't change the past." The soldier aimed. Lodz couldn't breathe. He tried to scream but could only form the words silently, over and over again, "don't shoot." The landscape was fading away around him, into red spots.

He awoke with red spots behind his eyes, dizzy, hearing a strange sound.

He switched on the light.

Scudder was vomiting. Into his soldier's hat, as it turned out.

Lodz leaped out of bed and grabbed a bucket, then went in search of towels.

"Must be those damn pigeons we're eating," Scudder said. Lodz took the hat and threw it into the trash outside the trailer, then filled a basin with water, and set about cleaning Scudder up. Scudder's eyes were strangely shadowed, and his skin was hot.

"You're ill," Lodz said, almost accusingly.

Scudder was a ghastly white, and shivering. "You could cook an egg on me if we had one," he said.

"This will make you feel cold, but it might bring down the fever," Lodz said briskly, laying a wet cloth on the back of Scudder's neck. He put a bucket into place next to the sofa. "Try not to ruin my sofa. The floor is less comfortable. Lean forward." He put a towel under Scudder, and fluffed the pillow under the towel.

"Funny, you don't look like Florence Nightingale," Scudder said. "Except for maybe the hair…."

Lodz snorted. He knew he looked like a cigar store Indian brought to life. "You'd get better care from the army nurses, if you'd prefer," he said.

"Yeah, we like our prisoners healthy for the firing squad. Looks bad to shoot a sick man fulla holes," Scudder snickered.

"Lie back, and stop trying to entertain me," Lodz ordered. He took the cloth, and immersed it again, giving Scudder what amounted to a sponge bath. Not content simply to clean Scudder up, he made a pot of herb tea, and melted down an ancient bouillion cube he had in the cupboard. He left them both in arm's reach of the sofa.

He had the absurd impulse to kiss Scudder on the forehead, but instead simply pressed a cool wet rag onto his forehead, and ruffled his hair.

"Rest," he commanded. "I have to work the Wheel of Fortune today, then do bally swords all night."

"Shower," Scudder ordered back. "You smell like seven different kinds of French armpit. With a goat."

Lodz gave him an broad smile and an obscene gesture, before letting the door close arrogantly behind him. But he did shower. Twice.

When he returned, expecting to see Scudder asleep on the couch, instead he found a clean trailer, and Scudder sitting alert and healthy at the table, sipping rum and reading.

In his left hand, Scudder rolled the silver coin like a pro.

"I burned my uniform. Hope you don't mind I borrowed your shirt. And your pants. Wanna play gin rummy?" Scudder asked him.

He nodded, noticing that the books on the table were all from his theosophical phase. He startled to see that his Havelock Ellis was out, along with "Avataras" and the "Bhagavad Gita." Not at all what he would expect an American soldier to choose to read for entertainment. There was more to Scudder than met the eye. Havelock Ellis?

"So you're a theosopher," Scudder said. "you do all that séance stuff?"

"Once. No longer. Too many words, too few experiences," Lodz said, pouring himself a drink and topping off Scudder's glass, face hidden behind a black veil of waistlength hair. "I prefer experiences. Now I'm merely a _forain_, a travelling performer."

He shook his hair out of his eyes. If he didn't know better, he would think Scudder had been playing sick to avoid having to work, but he had felt Scudder's skin, and seen his awful color, that morning. He added, "I'm glad to see you've made a quick recovery. I was afraid you had trench fever."

"Nah. Must've just been that rich food you Frenchies cook. I'm not used to it, " Scudder said carelessly, as he made the cards arch and ruffle perfectly between his neatly manicured hands. "Ask you a question, Lodz?" Scudder said, a silvery glint in his eyes.

"If you must." Lodz gathered up his hand and tsked in disgust. The hand he'd been dealt gave him very little to work with.

"How come you're not enlisted?"

"A very perceptive question, my friend. Two reasons. I didn't know which side to be on. I'm not French, but my mother was. French gypsy, actually. Always travelling. My father was a German aristocrat, and I was raised by my grandmother, in Poland, and had school in Paris, and an apprenticeship in Russia. So, you see, my nationality is a bit of an unsettled question."

Scudder nodded, and took up his cards. "You said two reasons."

Lodz felt terribly exposed suddenly, but he simply took a swig of rum and said, "yes, I did. But I didn't say I'd tell you what they were. You're a perceptive man. Figure it out." He affected a half-lidded disinterest in Scudder's reaction.

Scudder smiled, "I think I have."

"Good for you," Lodz said cheerfully, leaning back dangerously in his chair. His long legs never did fit comfortably under the table. "My turn to ask questions. Why did you enlist?"

Scudder's brow wrinkled in a scowl. "I'm born to roam, I guess."

Lodz looked up skeptically from his cards. "More to that story, I believe, my friend."

He had always called everyone that, but saying it to Scudder filled him with a warmth he'd previously only felt for the bears.

"Correct. Gin, you rummy." Scudder announced.

Lodz refilled their glasses.

"When did you become interested in theosophy?" he asked.

"Oh, about," Scudder looked at his pocket watch, "noon. I've been looking for a just about anything to explain to me why I'm so different."

"Not only perceptive, but modest, as well, I see," Lodz said sarcastically. He played three tens and discarded a king. "Vive la difference," he said very softly. "But I doubt any of the answers lie in mysticism." The lamplight gave his face a golden cast, and made sparks seem to dance in his dark chocolate eyes.

"Hey, Lodz. let me show you something," Scudder said, eyes sparkling with boyish glee. He swept up the game, shuffled, and proferred the deck of cards. "Pick a card. Any card."

Lodz laughed. "You don't know how to do this trick, apparently--YOU hold the cards for that one...and you can't do it with a deck like this. Don't try to entertain me with tricks, Scudder-I've been in this business all my life."

Scudder smirked. "Just shuffle 'em up all you want-just like that. Now pick one-you don't even have to pull it out of the deck unless you just want to. Two of clubs. Pick another."

Lodz plucked card after card from the deck, and Scudder named each one right.

"There is far more to you than meets the eye, my friend," Lodz said, glancing around. "Are the cards reflected in the window? My eyes? or how is this

done?"

Scudder smiled, shuffled the cards and dealt another hand of gin rummy.

"Tell you what, Lodz. The day you guess right, how I do it, I'll tell you. But you haven't figured it out yet. Not even close."


End file.
